


The package

by Darkhorse



Series: Letters [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Final gift, Gen, Letter, farewell, what might have been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:51:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Off, thoungh not exactly for, a prompt on Kinkmeme, involving letter writing (p.30)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The package

The knock on the door was what broke his shocked daze. Walking slowly, his Toulon limp more pronounced than it had ever been before, he came out into the hall and opened the door. A brief sting of fear went through him when he saw the uniform. Parisian police. But it would have been inspectors sent to arrest him, and this man, boy really, had none of the distinguishing insignia on his clothes. Still, he was wary  
“Monsieur Fauchelevent?” The tone was respectful, but brisk  
“I am he.”  
It was one of the last requests of Inspector Javert that we deliver these to you” The boy handed over a package wrapped in brown paper, gave a stiff bow and turned about to leave.  
Valjean found his tongue “my condolences to your Department, he must be a great loss”  
Formality and truth warred on the boy's face. Formality must have won, for he simply nodded silently. Valjean watched him down the stairs, then shut the door  
“Who is it Papa?”  
Cosette came tripping out of her room, looking tired. He waved her off with a hand, hiding the package “Nothing, the porteress gave someone the wrong directions”

When he was in his own room he locked his door and sat staring at the package. Moments passed as he ran back over what the boy had said, trying to decide if it was a trick. Then slowly, he pulled off first the string, then the wrapping. At least a hundred pieces of folded paper spilled over the desk, leaping everywhere. Almost absent-mindedly he stopped them, pushing them back into a pile before picking up one and looking at it. The handwriting that stared back at him was his own, wobbly somewhat and scratched with a poor implement, but most certainly his. An inkling as to what he was facing began to tickle, but it wasn't until he picked up the fifth and a phrase jumped out at him that he realised what he held

The letters.

They had started innocently enough, venting his fury at the Inspector when returned to prison, he was scathing over Fantine, bitter about Cosette's fate. He'd written them as best he could, on scraps of paper he'd scrounged with a makeshift pen made of a twig and an old nib one of the galley men had dropped. Then he'd beg and wheedle with his fellow prisoners until they were smuggled out.  
Somehow, even after he'd been freed, he'd never stopped writing them. It became a habit, a way of relieving boredom. Perhaps because he could have all the paper he wanted now, as opposed to Toulon, he'd begun to ramble, telling Javert about silly little things; that Cosette came up to his shoulder, that's she'd had a new gown, that the old lady selling buttons had re-done his coat for nothing. 

And as he remembered, he counted, sometimes seeking a phrase to give him a date. One was missing. 

On the brown paper still laying on the desk was a crumpled lump. Ever so gently he teased it open and it fell into two ditinct pieces. One was the missing letter, folded tight. The other looked as though it had been torn from a police notebook, judging by the type of paper. He picked up the letter first, noticing the thumb marks that weren't his own, that it was folded to fit in a breast pocket, and little squiggles between the lines  
Squiggles? No, it was writing, and after a moment he was able to distinguish that it was a reply, of sorts, to his note, with as much heartfelt sentiment as the original.

Shaken doubly now, that the letters had actually been received, and that Javert had answered them, after a fashion, he turned his attention to the last piece of the package

The salutation alone seemed to have gone through several versions. Drifting from Monsieur, Monsieur Valjean and other names he had used until it finally settled

_Jean,  
When you read this, I will be long dead and you will be free. There is much I would wish to say, but do not know how to, so I content myself with this. You have torn me, Jean Valjean, with your actions. I thought I would die honourably at the barricade, a martyr to the line of duty. It was fitting, though I did not wish to die. Then you came, and released me, placing myself in your debt._

_I like to believe that I have repayed that by helping you with the boy and letting you go, but in truth, I do not believe I could ever repay you. You were always kind, and gentle, more than I deserved. I know that the workers and townsfolk wished I be exchanged for some other inspector, on account of my heritage, yet you kept me on, though it caused you no end of personal discomfort and trouble._

_You are a good man, Jean Valjean, an honest man with a true heart. You do things for the right reasons, unselfish reasons, even if the way you went about them was wrong. You help people from the gutter, rather than throwing more dirt. Would that I had known you when I was a boy, things would be different._

_Now I must be brief, for I come to the end of this page, yet the finale is as awkward as the beginning. I will only state that you must not blame yourself, old guilt-donkey; The sin is on my shoulders and must be expunged by dismissal from my post._

_Your Old Constant_  
 _Stefan_

The name was a true signature, with an addition carefully print-written underneath  
 _Javert, Inspector of the Parisian Police._

Valjean stared at the note, almost uncomprehending. Then, quite silently, he began to weep. For all those lost, for Javert... Stefan. For what might have been. He went into black the next day, full mourning. When Cosette asked why, he merely replied “An old friend has died, one whom I saw a lot of, and corresponded with.”  
It was the truth.


End file.
